by Robin Adair
For his bloody new work, go to The Gleaner.
The script was in the left-handed style they all had come to expect.
“Who delivered this message?” asked the patterer.
“No one remembers clearly. The messenger simply handed it over and disappeared. Who would take any notice—it was just an ordinary-looking note? When its import was realized, it was too late to seek out its carrier.” Rossi held up a hand. “Now, you can’t blame the constable. You were holding the pistol and were covered in blood. And then you ran—in his eyes, hardly the action of an innocent man.”
Nicodemus Dunne flushed. “Do you think I’m guilty?”
“Of course not! But you must admit that the evidence is compelling.”
“Is compelling? Don’t you mean, was compelling? Am I still a wanted man?”
The captain looked uncomfortable. “Well, it still looks bad for you.”
“But that’s exactly the reason I had to run! It’s a vicious circle.”
“I don’t quite know what to do with you,” admitted Rossi. “The governor is furious. He thinks he’s been made to look a fool. You’ve put him in an awkward position.”
“Him? What about my position? They’ll try to hang me!”
“Oh,” said the captain airily. “You won’t dance the Newgate jig.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Rossi was dismissive. “We wouldn’t let it happen to you.” He did not elaborate. “But, on a brighter note, Miss Dormin is also on your side. She rushed here as soon as the news had spread. She was white with shock, but I reassured her.”
So, she still cares enough, thought the patterer. I must certainly see her.
“But,” the policeman continued, “what are we to do to justify my assurances?”
“Captain, I need at least today to clear my name and at the same time finally unmask our murderer—”
“You know now? Who is it?” Rossi broke in excitedly.
“Have patience until I’m sure. But this is what must happen. I give you my parole that I won’t escape. What I want in return is a passeport so that no one will be able to take me while I’m hunting. And I require a letter from you giving me authority to question any officials and functionaries—don’t worry, they’ll all be well below the governor’s level. I’ll call on you later this afternoon. Do we have a deal?”
Rossi pondered a moment, then nodded.
THE PATTERER BEGAN what he hoped would be his last rounds of detection with his hat pulled low over his face. He had his papers of safe passage but he still wanted to avoid wasting valuable time endlessly producing them.
He called first on the apothecary who had made the arsenic sale. There he received fresh information he had failed to elicit earlier: The mystery buyer was much shorter than Dunne. Dr. Owens, noted the patterer, was a tall man. But Dr. Halloran was considerably shorter.
At the building that housed the Colonial Treasurer, Dunne did not find that august gentleman, William Balcombe, who had once been an intimate of the exiled Bonaparte on Saint Helena. As an East India Company official, Balcombe took the fallen emperor in while a rat-infested farmhouse was being repaired for him.
Thus Balcombe’s son, Thomas (who rejoiced in the middle name Tyrwhitt), and the defeated Frenchman became firm friends, two lonely figures on the remote island. And it was this young man, now nineteen and determined to become an artist, whom Dunne was pleased to come across.
They talked casually about their favorite artworks of the colony. Balcombe liked the early paintings and sketches of John Rae, Thomas Rowlandson and George Raper. The patterer praised Joseph Lycett and Augustus Earle, in particular the latter’s likenesses of King Bungaree.
“It has been a sad time, with deaths in the art world,” said the younger man. “Mr. Lycett is gone, I fear. It seems, no one knows for sure, that a year or so ago, in Bath, he forged some banknotes—unhappy man, forgery is what sent him here originally. Upon his arrest he slashed his throat and then, while recovering in hospital, he ripped open the wound and died. The other death has, of course, been the recent passing of Francisco Goya.” Balcombe continued, smiling wryly, “It is ironic that Goya, my artistic hero, used his brush to condemn the atrocities perpetrated by the army of which my old friend, the Emperor Napoleon, was the commander.”
On that note, they parted, the patterer to continue his studies in art—only this was the fine art of murder.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Captain Louis Renault: Round up the usual suspects.
—Julius J. Epstein et al., Casablanca (1942)
THE COLONIAL SECRETARY’S OFFICE, WHICH WAS MUCH GRANDER than that of the treasurer, was the hub of record-keeping for the colony. There Dunne sought details of shipping arrivals and departures, and their complements, and narratives of incidents on the crossings. Most of the files were voluminous and comprehensive, but sometimes they were not. In one famous instance, the Anne, a convict transport, arrived in 1801 with no papers for its human cargo. The lists finally turned up, eighteen years later.
The patterer found the records for the ill-fated Morley, which had caused Dr. Cunningham so much pain, but although he failed to find the names he was particularly seeking, he nonetheless left the office feeling greatly enlightened.
AT THE SUBSCRIPTION Library, his disguise failed and the attendant coolly pointed out that his annual subscription of two guineas was due. On becoming financial once more, he called for and studied a German dictionary. He also found what he was after in a volume of Shakespeare’s works. In his pursuit of the Exodus clue, however, he became bogged down. But Genesis was more rewarding.
As he handed back the foreign dictionary, Dunne had an idle thought. He called for a world gazetteer. When the dying Muller had said the word Schwein, had he simply been cursing his killer rather than naming him—surely no one’s name began with “pig!” Or did his last breath point perhaps to a place?
In the atlas, Dunne looked for a German location beginning with “Schwein-.” He found one, in the realm of Bayern—or Bavaria. There it was: Schweinfurt—ford for swine—which was necessary, as the spot lay on the River Main. But what help was that?
He had an idea, but several of the books he requested next were unavailable. So he moved on to the stationery office and library attached to The Gazette. There, Mr. William McGarvie found what the patterer required, including a comprehensive pharmacopoeia—a heavy volume listing drugs and medicines and describing their preparation, uses and effects.
Mr. McGarvie also proudly produced a prize. On the day before his arrest, the patterer had digested a thought-provoking entry in a general medical book. Now he had before him an English commentary on the work of the Spanish poisons expert, Dr. Mathieu Orfila. Dunne recalled Thomas Owens mentioning the expert. The Spanish doctor now spoke clearly to him. The patterer realized that so, too, had the unfortunate Muller. And his message was breath-taking, confirming all of Dunne’s suspicions.
Although there was still one gap, that did not put off the imminent denouement—he was certain he had solved the murders. The accidental tomfoolery at the impromptu Sandhills funeral had turned the key to the killing machine’s identity.
What a fool I’ve been, he thought, not to have listened sooner to a dead man. Several such, in fact. And one of them gone to dust two centuries ago.
AS DUNNE DREW closer to the waters of Sydney Cove, the tang of salt and mud, even the ships’ smells of tar, hot canvas, hemp and, from time to time, carpenters’ sweet shavings battled valiantly against the too-often pervading stenches of the dry and thus unwashed town. The drought that baked the colony looked like never ending. Even the seagulls seemed tired.
To the patterer, the strongest smells came as he passed a sentry and entered a Customs Office bond storeroom, which was cluttered with bagged spices and sandalwood from the East, furs from as far away as Canada, whale and seal oil from the southern ocean, rum from India and wine from the Cape. Even the commodities that were tightly sealed so
mehow managed to stamp their aromatic identities onto the close air. These things and a thousand more were all held in bondage until customs duty was paid.
It was a colorful place, but Dunne thought that it must be duller without the presence or influence of its former chief collector, Captain John Piper. His successors, such as Captain Rossi, oversaw the operations, but more covertly, without Piper’s lordly, proprietary swagger.
Of course, nowadays there was not quite the same incentive. Captain Rossi received a flat salary, but when Piper reigned he had taken 4 percent of all duties collected. Originally, his masters expected he might skim off 400 pounds a year, but as business boomed, his fees reached 11,000 pounds.
The patterer well recalled when the customs accounts were found muddled and Piper lost his lucrative post. The collector took it hard and went to sea in his luxury yacht, crewed by blue-and-silver-uniformed sailors who were also skilled musicians. On the open sea, Piper jumped over the side but his serenading sailors fished him out. He then retired across the mountains to hunt kangaroos and wild dogs. In full hunting pink, naturally.
Dunne’s daydreams were interrupted by the arrival of the first customs officer he had asked to see. Captain Rossi’s letter of introduction worked wonders and the man was eager to cooperate. This fellow enjoyed the title of “gauger,” but he could not help the patterer; his function was to work out the quantities of cargo items on which duty was to be applied.
The “tide-waiter” explained that he, suitably enough, awaited the tides’ ebb and flow, overseeing ships’ arrivals and departures to detect or deter contraband. His colleague, the “landing-waiter,” explained that he, on the other hand, waited on the wharf and checked off landed consignments against the ships’ manifests.
The patterer thanked these worthies, but passed on. The next—and last—man he interviewed, ah, he was the “jerquer.” And he was the man Dunne wanted, for a jerquer examined ships’ papers and saw that all cargo was listed and accurately described.
Had he, Dunne asked, seen any unusual cargoes? One from, say, Schweinfurt, in Bavaria? It may have come by way of London, of course.
“Ah, that’s an easy one,” replied the jerquer. He recalled only one such consignment. But it had come not from Schweinfurt but from another sausage-eaters’ city, Leipzig.
The patterer hid his disappointment, but still let the man steer him to the records. Where, indeed, there was a note of such a load upon which duty had been paid. And thus the jerquer was able to name the shipment’s contents—and the address, if not the identity, of its recipient. The consignment had gone to the place where the clue originated—the office of The Gleaner.
THE PATTERER THEN sought out Brian O’Bannion. “You’ve shown that you’re handy at getting into ground-floor windows—how are you at first-story jobs?”
“Anyone on the premises?” asked the Irishman.
“Not to worry you in the area I’m talking about. I need it done today—so that the item you take will be with me tomorrow morning, early.”
“If it’s important to you, of course I’ll do it.”
Dunne smiled. “I wouldn’t ask you to risk it if I couldn’t look you in the eye and say that lives depend upon you.” He told O’Bannion exactly what he was to look for, adding before he moved off, “Be careful near it. It might be wise to wear gloves and a mask.”
HE HAD ONE last duty—and it had always been a pleasant one: He called on Miss Dormin at the dress shop.
“You’ll be pleased to know that the matter of the murders is coming to a head,” he said.
She gasped and shook her head admiringly. “And there’s something I want you to do,” he added. “You must tell no one. Not even Dr. Halloran.”
“Is it important?”
He took her hand and pressed it. “Oh, yes. It’s a matter of life and death.”
He made his request and they talked earnestly for a long while. Then, after a squeeze, the patterer released his hold and said, “Now, go.”
“WE ARE READY to have a last meeting of the principals involved,” said Dunne, handing Captain Rossi a note with a list of names. It was a long list.
“My God, are you mad?” The police chief scanned the names on the note. “They won’t all come. And do we want all these people? Besides, it will be Sunday.”
The patterer soothed him. “Oh, I think you’ll find they’ll make time if you tell them it’s the governor’s pleasure that they do. And that they’ll meet our quarry. Finally.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts—as far as I comprehend them myself.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” (1845)
SO IT WAS THAT NICODEMUS DUNNE FOUND HIMSELF EXACTLY where his voyage of death and discovery had all started—was it really only a matter of weeks ago?—back in the same secluded room deep in the heart of the George Street barracks.
With him were familiar faces from that first meeting: Governor Darling, Colonel Shadforth and Captains Crotty and Rossi. Their ranks were swollen by the attendance, as desired, of lawyer William Charles Wentworth, Dr. Halloran, his fellow editor Edward Smith Hall and Dr. Owens. None of them commented on the patterer’s changed status, from fugitive murder suspect to master of ceremonies. Rossi had evidently calmed those waters, just as he had briefed those new to the company on the bare bones of the crimes.
“We have until one o’clock this afternoon to put this tragic matter completely to rights,” Dunne began. He refused to respond to the questioning looks that greeted this mention of a time constraint.
Then he lobbed his first grenade, continuing quietly, “In this affair, most of you have been suspects—” He raised a hand to quell the hubbub of angry dissent. “All of these men have secrets that offer motives strong enough to kill for. Each could have killed at least one of our victims. And, collectively, almost all of you have also conspired to slay one of your fellows—perhaps even a second.” He ignored the renewed buzz of angry objections. “You must indulge me, as we consider what we first learned about the murders, in order.
“The soldier outside the tavern? Well, if his had been the only murder, Captain Rossi’s men and the army would probably have had to file away the facts of his strange wounds and the sugar in his mouth. The investigation would have gathered mildew and the letter to the governor, too, may well have gathered dust. For there were no real clues.” He paused. “And, he was, after all, just a poor soldier.
“But the death of the New World printer, Abbot, taxed any element of coincidence. He had once been a member of the same regiment. He, too, was mutilated. There was another mysterious, wordy ‘clue.’ Two, in fact. And more sugar.
“The slaughterman’s poisoning, although it did not include any physical violence, finally removed the possibility that the similarities between the deaths were mere chance. The poisoner’s instructions were given in the backward-sloping, left-handed writing of the first letter—and the same regiment was on the march again. It was lightning striking the same place—a third time. No chance.” He shook his head dismissively.
“Then, the blacksmith’s death in the Lumber Yard gave us lashings by another left-hander and more slashing, copying that done to the first victim. And more sugar—albeit dyed green. He was no ‘Die Hard’ veteran, but still there was a military link, which turned out to be a revealing one and about which I will speak more fully in due course.
“I believe the same hand killed all our victims. Could some of them be copycat affairs? I think not. Consider that too much intimate knowledge would be required of cases, but they were never made completely public.” Dunne smiled encouragingly at Captain Rossi.
“So, a pattern had emerged—which promptly appeared to be broken by the seemingly unconnected death of Madame Greene. Hers was the most intriguing, until the two most recent murders. And yes, gentlemen, they will be the last in this chain of slaughter. The killing of the Gleaner compositor, Muller, was almost the death of
me.”
Rossi had the good grace to redden at this.
The patterer continued. “I had already harbored certain suspicions, but Muller told me something—although I didn’t see it at the time—that lifted the veil on the terrible secrets—”
Wentworth interrupted. His lawyer’s forensic mind had already caught an inconsistency. “Sit fast, sir!” he said. “You just referred to ‘the two most recent murders.’ In the plural. Wasn’t the man Muller the last?”
“Chronologically, yes,” Dunne replied. “But before him—and uncounted so far—was the maid, Elsie.”
Rossi recovered his wits first. “But wasn’t she . . . didn’t she commit suicide?”
Dunne shook his head. “We were supposed to think so, but she was certainly slain—to silence her—and by our angel of death, no one else. And then someone wanted me dead. For getting too close.”
Governor Darling spoke for the first time. “So what, to your mind, is the link between the soldiers’ deaths and Madame Greene’s? And you’ve thrown in the German and now the maid, for good measure.”
“Bear with me, sir,” soothed the patterer.
“I still want to hear why you’ve damned well accused us!” interposed Wentworth furiously.
He glowered when all Dunne would say was a curt “All in good time” before continuing. “Until the very last I had trouble making the connection stick. Certainly, Madame was poisoned like The Ox, but where did the others fit in? There seemed no link between their deaths and the Sudds case, which provided a common thread between the earlier murders . . .” He paused and waited while Captain Rossi explained to the uninitiated the concept that the killings were revenge for the persecution of the unfortunate soldier.